


Allegro

by deadcellredux



Category: Final Fantasy IV
Genre: Backstory, F/M, First Meetings, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/pseuds/deadcellredux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Edward,” Anna says, abandoning all sense of reservation, “if you leave home again, come back here…?” her voice trails off into a question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allegro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glacialphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacialphoenix/gifts).



> Written in response to a prompt which was, quite simply, "the first time Anna meets Edward." Pre-canon? Canon-what-canon? In any case, takes place pre-game, before Anna's mother dies.

Anna sighs as her mother’s weak fingers weave ribbons through Anna’s hair; she can hear her mother’s slow, even breathing behind her where she is propped up by oversized pillows against the headboard of the bed. It is only a week until Anna’s sixteenth birthday; on the bad days—which come more often than not, now—Anna fears she will celebrate motherless.

“I wish you could come with us to the festival,” Anna says quietly.

“It’s quite alright,” Anna’s mother says. “I’ve been enough times by now. You’ll have a lovely day with your father. You may even meet the Prince.”

Anna feels her mother fasten the last ribbon to tie off a heavy braid. “Father says the Prince is not much of a man at all,” Anna says, turning on the edge of the bed to face her mother, who leans back against the pillows.

Anna’s mother sighs, heavy, tired. “It’s a pity, about that boy. He has no interest in martial and political affairs. No one is quite sure how he’s going to rule when the throne is passed to him.”

Anna looks down at her hands. “So what _is_ he interested in, then?”

Anna’s mother curls her lip in a weak smirk. “I don’t believe anyone’s asked him. If you meet him, perhaps you should inquire.”

Anna laughs a bit, blushes. Even in her wildest dreams—the Prince of Damcyan? _Speaking_ to her? Even if he wasn’t much of a man, she’d heard he was quite beautiful, had seen paintings and banners bearing his likeness which conveyed as much.

“Mother,” she says, “surely I won’t find myself in that position.”

“No matter. Your father will find a suitable husband for you. There are plenty of decent highborn men who would do well to suit the daughter of the Great Sage.”

“I think father’s getting too absent-minded to take on such a task.”

“He just doesn’t want to lose his little girl,” Anna’s mother says, and coughs violently. She presses her handkerchief to her mouth with a shaking hand and Anna leans forward, places her hand on her mother’s trembling arm and watches her carefully, alarmed, because at this point any upstart could be the beginning of the end.

“Please rest, mother—“ Anna begins.

“Go find your father,” Anna’s mother says, her eyes still closed, skin pale. “I’m sure he’s waiting for you.”

“I don’t want to leave you here.”

“The servants are here,” Anna’s mother says. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Anna feels tears rising to her eyes; they start to spill and as she stands and brushes them away she is grateful that her mother’s eyes remain closed to this admission of weakness, fear.

……….

Anna applauds with the rest of the crowd as the final strains of a musical movement subside; the performance of the musicians and troubadours will cloud her mind with images and sound long after the crowd begins to disperse from the makeshift stage in the town square. She is alone, her father having left her to experience this year’s entertainment on her own as he tends to business—more like drinking and carousing, it seems, to Anna—with the other officials in attendance.

Anna wanders away from the crowd, swats at a stray dragonfly as it hovers close to her, inhales the smell of food and fragrant incense alight in Mysidia’s crowded town square. There is an outskirt of the town she enjoys wandering in, a thicket of flowers and trees leading off into the forest not far from the westernmost promenade, and she finds herself headed there, still humming the song she has just seen performed.

She notices a movement out of the corner of her eye; a flash of what looks like yellow, a feather, perhaps— _did a baby Chocobo escaped from a stable?_ She hears a bit of rustling amongst a dense clump of bushes and she steps forward slowly, peeking her head around a tangle of branches.

It isn’t a baby Chocobo—it is a boy about her age, seated with his legs crossed under him in the grass, scrawling something on a piece of parchment with a stick of charcoal. He is so intent on what he is writing that he fails to notice her until she speaks.

“Excuse me, sir—were you one of the performers, just now?” excitement bubbles out in her voice with the prospect that perhaps _this_ is the poet who wrote the beautiful love song she had moments ago the privilege of hearing.

The boy jumps with a start, looks up with a wide-eyed and oddly _terrified_ stare as his eyes meet hers. He quickly crumples the parchment in half and tries to shove it awkwardly into a pocket in his jacket. It starts to slip out and he shoves it back in, nervously, as he rises to his feet. Anna cringes as she hears the paper tear.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle—“

“No, no, it’s quite alright. I apologize,” he bows and his hat nearly slips off; he catches it with an awkward hand, looks up at Anna with a furrowed brow. “Sorry.”

Something is off about him, and Anna steps closer, looking at his face. There’s something about his blue eyes, wide and wet and sad, that indicates he is on the verge of fleeing, that he’s been caught in the act of something he shouldn’t have been doing. Anna has a strange feeling she can’t place; her eyes travel to his hair, blonde and swept to block his face, and Anna registers a recognition that numbs her limbs with a cold shiver. “Are you…” she begins, and shakes her head. “You’re not…”

“Who?” he asks, beginning to back away slowly. Anna follows, her feet moving not of her accord, and he freezes, holding out an open hand in front of him as if to say stay back and opening his mouth as if to speak.

“Are you the _Prince?_ ”

“I… ah, no—well, not—yes. Maybe? If you’ll excuse me I…”

Anna’s eyes widen and she claps a hand over her mouth before composing herself and bowing. “Prince Edward, my Lord,” she says breathlessly, dipping her head low, and Edward takes a quick yet hesitant step forward, protesting. “No, oh please, don’t _bow,_ ” he looks around them to see if anyone notices this strange exchange, and places a hand on her arm. “Please—don’t _do_ that—“

Anna’s eyes are closed to his conflagrations and she feels breathless. “It is an _honor_ , my Lord—“

“It is _nothing_ ,” Edward says in a hushed tone, and Anna finally stands. Edward looks around; no one in the distant crowd seems to notice or care what is going on between the awkward pair. “Listen, don’t… _tell_ anyone… who I am.”

“I would never,” Anna says honestly, pressing her hand to her chest. “But what are you doing? Are you…” she runs her eyes over his body, allows herself to fully take in the composition of his sleight form, the tattered clothing he wears. “Are you in _disguise?_ ”

“I’m not supposed to be here right now,” Edward says. “I’m to be in my room. I’m being disciplined—“

“For what?”

“For _this_.” Edward says, gesturing at his body. “For sneaking out in…” he sighs and rolls his eyes and when he continues Anna can tell that he is mimicking the words of someone else—“ridiculous clothing and pretending to be a low-born minstrel-bard… _person_. Anyone but the Prince of Damcyan.”

Anna takes a breath to speak, but Edward continues, the words from his mouth sounding uncontrolled as if they had been tied back and suddenly cut loose. “My father is rather ashamed of me. Says I should be studying sword fighting and politics and Chocobo riding and… _battle_ strategies and I just… don’t want to.”

“Well then,” Anna says hesitantly. Her mind is a muddle; she is taken aback in a way she has rarely felt, trying to comprehend the juxtaposition of the high royalty in front of her with the appearance and conversation he currently presents. As if in a dream, the world around them had paused; the music and rising clamor of the festival’s voices and movement dying in her ears, succumbing to this moment here in a thicket of trees. Even the flowers on the ground had seemed to still their subtle shivers in the wind. Her mind blanks for a moment before traveling to one thing, as if on an auto-piloted track. “If that truly is the case, then—I’ve a question for you… my mother proposed I should be brave enough to ask, if I should meet you today.”

Edward blinks, still looking as if he is apt to turn and run any second; but he nods nonetheless.

“If none of those things hold a draw for you, then what _do_ you want to do?”

Edward looks away for a second, then back at Anna. “Music,” he says quietly, and then anxiously bites his lip.

“Really?”

“Yes. I’d rather… travel, be a wandering bard, convey tales of honor and glory and valor—“ he looks up at Anna again—“I also like to read, and write—“ then looks back down. “It’s just a shame that I’ll never live up to any of the heroes or Kings or warriors whom all the old songs and stories are about.”

“Well that’s just fine,” Anna says, smiling. “Someone has to _write_ those beautiful songs and stories… what do you play?”

“The… harp,” Edward says, with a look on his face as if he’s in pain.

“Why must your face look like that?”

“Father says it’s a woman’s instrument. Not that I agree, or think… that women’s affairs are of less importance than—”

“Nonsense. An instrument is an agent of creation in its owner’s hands, no matter the type.”

“You really think that?”

“Of course.”

Edward reaches over his shoulder, pulls on the sling stretching over there, and pulls forward a small-scale lute.

“And this.”

“Oh,” Anna smiles. “It’s adorable.”

“Well it’s, you know… _travel_ size, I suppose,” Edward half-smiles, meets her eyes and laughs a little, and for a moment Anna _sees_ him.

“How old are you?” she asks, and before she can apologize for her forwardness and lack of manners, Edward answers.

“Seventeen,” he says. “And you, my lady?”

“Sixteen next week,” she says. “I’d no idea you were so young.”

Edward laughs. “That’s because I’m not expected to act my age, I suppose.”

“Your high—“ Edward half-flinches and Anna catches herself—“Edward,”—she continues, and the name feels strange in her mouth as she addresses his royal presence—“Can I hear you play?” her voice quietly rises with excitement she can’t control and she grasps her hands into a tightly woven fist against her thigh, her fingers tensing, blood pounding from the thrill of her own probing question.

“It would be my pleasure,” Edward says, bowing, and Anna can see the rose color on his pale cheeks where he blushes, the vulnerability in his downcast eyes; and she is starting to think that there really is something beautiful about him, feels a flush rise to her own cheeks as he places his hands on his lute. “If it might please my lady, I can play…”

“No need for formalities,” Anna says, her voice breathless and rushed. “I’d just like to hear.”

Edward plucks the strings and Anna feels her body become liquid, inanimate matter carried along in the rhythm of a song. She recognizes the melody and sadness overwhelms her as she begins to bite at a fingernail, thoughtful. “Do you not like it?” Edward asks quietly, his fingers drifting over the strings. “You look sad. I mean, I’m still practicing. I hope the sound is not offensive, it’s just that this song is a bit difficult, and I—“

“My mother is dying,” Anna says.

Edward stares at her, awkward shock on his face as he moves his mouth, wanting to speak but not finding words.

“I’m sorry,” Anna says. “I didn’t mean to upset you. The song was beautiful, really.”

“No—no—“ Edward stammers. “Not at all—please—I’ve no right to be upset. I’m afraid I’m the one who’s brought up unpleasant thoughts. I shouldn’t have asked—“

“Asked me why I look sad?” Anna said, looking back up at him, smiling. “There’s nothing wrong with that. It was quite kind of you.”

Edward looks away, his cheeks flushing a bit. “Well… I…”

“It’s a beautiful thing to be able to understand a rhythm inside of you,” Anna says. “And that song really is lovely… it’s an old Mysidian ballad, isn’t it? I’ve heard my mother hum it, while she used to sew up holes in my clothing…” _when she was healthy_ , Anna thinks as her voice trails off. _When she could chase me when I played, picked me up when I fell, fix those holes I’d scrape open while climbing trees and running and tumbling._

“Yes,” Edward quietly, focusing on Anna’s face. “It is.”

“Do you sing?” Anna asks abruptly.

“Yes…”  
“I’d like to hear you. If not now, then surely one day. I’d imagine you’ve a beautiful singing voice.”

“Your imaginings are flawed.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case.”

“Have you ever stepped on a Chocobo’s foot?” Edward asks. “They emit a warbling screech not unlike—“

“Oh stop,” Anna says, covering her face with her hand as she laughs, and Edward smiles, his eyes lighting again.

“It is a pleasure to see you laugh, my lady,” Edward says, and then, quietly— “You are quite beautiful.”

Anna feels her face grow hot as she looks off to the side. “Oh, no, I—“

“Are you from here, in Mysidia?” Edward asks.

“Yes. My father is the Great Sage.”

 _“What?”_

“Ah…” Anna bristles at Edward’s reaction. “Yes… Tellah… do you know him?”

“I’m afraid your father hates me, my lady,” Edward says, and his face shadows into sadness, and a strange defeat lids his eyes. “He sometimes holds counsel with my father and they agree that I’m… not fit for rule.”

Anna feels an anxious panic rise inside her, steps forward and hesitates before she puts a hand on Edward’s forearm, grasping it gently. He looks at her and she tries desperately to formulate her words, to not sound as desperate and ashamed as she feels.

“My father is a good man,” she says, “but not always correct in his assumptions—he is rather old-fashioned, and getting on in years, and he doesn’t understand many things…” she loses track of thought as she stares into Edward’s eyes, feels a tightness gather in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t think that I would feel the same way, because I don’t… this is, this is undignified of a lady,” she says, composing herself, taking her hand off of his arm and stepping back. She looks away and bites the inside of her cheek, stilling her tongue; her words have been unbecoming enough already, and in her mind her position in Edward’s eyes has henceforth been set in stone.

Edward’s actions prove her wrong; he steps forward to remain close, takes one of her tense hands in his gentle fingers. “It’s alright,” he says. “I wouldn’t judge you by your father’s opinions.”

“Thank you,” she says, pulling her hand away instinctively to fold once again with the other as she steps away, following the rules in which she’s been taught to follow around the opposite sex, wondering at the same time why Edward seems to disregard them in his forwardness. “I should go,” she says, looking away, back towards the bustle of the festival, the pathways she has strayed from, paved and otherwise.

“I hate the idea of being King,” Edward says, louder and with bravery uncharacteristic of what Anna has so far seen. “I’d rather see the world instead of being trapped in that place. Although,” he falters, sinking back into reservation, “I suppose it would be a mite better if I had a… suitable lady to keep me company.” His voice shakes a bit as he drums his now-empty fingers against the back of his other hand, and Anna thinks their movements should be back against the neck of his lute.

“Edward,” Anna says, abandoning all sense of reservation, “if you leave home again, come back here…?” her voice trails off into a question.

“Of course,” Edward says.

“Will you sing for me, next time?” Anna asks, and Edward’s cheeks flush deeper.

“I only know but a few songs,” Edward mutters, and Anna brightens, asks him—

“Do you know the one about the Red Mage and the Healer?”

“I don’t,” Edward replies. “But I can… improvise…?”

Anna smiles. _Some people are not meant to play the roles they are told to enact, she thinks. Some people can do better with fingers on strings and a voice._

“If…. if I may…” Edward says quietly, stepping closer and taking her hand again. Anna lets him, and now he is close enough for her to feel his body heat, the temperature a sensation radiating deep beneath the all-too-natural and detached rays of the summer sun.

Edward’s lips press to the back of Anna’s hand, soft and warm, and Anna has never felt this sensation before. A hot shiver runs down throughout the core of her body and after he lowers her hand and releases it she wants him to do it again, wants him to open his mouth and speak, start singing, stay close, _anything_.

“I can write something for you,” Edward says, his face flushed, smile hesitant.

“About a common girl and a Prince?”

“Not common. Just… _unlikely_.”

Anna lowers her head to hide her smile, pressing to her lips the back of the hand which Edward has kissed. _I should feel special_ , she thinks, and she can’t wait to tell her mother. She feels goose bumps rise on her flesh at this new prospect, a fire igniting in her stomach as defiance towards her father’s thoughts swirl like a sandstorm in her brain. Anna is conflicted, now; but all of _this_ is like nothing she’s ever felt before.

“They’re preparing for the final parade,” Edward says, nodding in the direction of Mysidia’s main square. “My father will be there. I have to go.”

Anna nods, knowing her father will be honored there as well, front and center as one of the Kingdom’s pillars.

“Just remember—“ Anna begins as she steps away, looks over her shoulder as Edward does the same, and Edward raises a hand to wave.

“I will,” he says, and he rushes off, away into the forest, and then he is gone.


End file.
